


Seashells

by snuckybarnes



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Happy Ending, Jon's childhood in Bournemouth, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Canon, Summer Vacation, Swimming, Teenagers, Trans Jonathan Sims, Trans Male Character, meeting again as adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuckybarnes/pseuds/snuckybarnes
Summary: Martin Blackwood is sixteen when he sees the ocean for the first time.He’s been on vacation a handful of time before, but only short distances from home, and certainly never as far away asBournemouth.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 251
Kudos: 767





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw a tumblr post informing me that Jon did, in fact, grow up in a resort town. And I'm like...hey...what if Martin went on vacation there once and they had a little teenage romance?
> 
> It's worth noting that I have never been to Bournemouth, and am keeping the details about the place as vague as possible but please forgive any blatant errors and just enjoy two awkward teenagers making friends.

Martin Blackwood is sixteen when he sees the ocean for the first time.

He’s been on vacation a handful of time before, but only short distances from home, and certainly never as far away as _Bournemouth_. But the man his mother has been seeing for the last couple of months apparently always goes there for a few weeks in the summer, and now this means Martin and his mother are coming too.

(Martin wouldn’t have minded staying home, to give them time and space on their own, but his mother wouldn’t have it. Not out of any real desire for his company, but rather said that she worried their flat wouldn’t still be there when she came home if she left him alone. She didn’t leave much room to argue.)

The small summer house thankfully has a bedroom for Martin, but even before they arrive he’s decided to spend as much time away as possible. His mother will want him out of the way, where he can’t cause trouble or be a bother, and he has no plans of going against those wishes.

Which is why he packs his backpack with his wallet, a candy bar and a jumper — it’s warm now, but you never know if the weather is going to change — and heads for the door only ten minutes after they’ve arrived.

“I thought I’d go out to see the town,” he says.

“Alright, have fun! Be back before dinner,” is what he thinks a parent should say. They do in movies and on the telly, at least.

“Okay,” is what his mother says. Nothing more.

Martin nods to himself. It’s what he expected. “I’ll see you later then!”

And he’s off.

The house is part of a cluster of several; each with their own unique colours and features, yet somehow exactly the same. They’re carefully spaced apart, and located a little bit away from the hubbub of people Martin expects one can find during summer in a town like this. He’s seen pictures, after all.

He walks for at least half an hour, taking in everything and marvelling at how different everything is from what he’s used to. When he starts to properly see the ocean between the building he speeds up, and almost jogs until he’s standing by a railing, the beach just a few feet below him, stretching out until it meets the lapping waves.

It’s so _big_. Stretching out into infinity, its vastness only interrupted by spots of boats or people or birds.

Martin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, inhaling the salty air. He’s grinning and probably looking like quite the idiot, but he doesn’t care.

“Excuse me.”

Martin opens his eyes, searching for the source of the voice. His gaze lands on a boy, probably around his own age, standing below him on the beach. He’s definitely skinnier than Martin, and likely shorter too, but that might just be the perspective; from where he’s standing, his waist is about level with the ground Martin is on.

Martin blinks, not sure what to say to this stranger with unfairly intense eyes.

“I’d like—” the boy begins once he has Martin’s attention, then he averts his eyes to somewhere around Martin’s feet. “I’d like that shell, would you mind moving a bit?”

Martin looks down, and there is indeed a seashell lying on the concrete just by Martin’s shoes. It’s very pretty.

Instead of stepping aside, Martin crouches down and picks the shell up, holding it out to the boy. “Sure thing, here you go,” he says, hoping his smile is more friendly than awkward.

The boy hesitates for a moment, before his lips twitch into a slight smile and he reaches out to take the shell. Their fingers brush a bit, and Martin forces himself not to think about it. “Thank you,” the boy says. “Sorry for bothering you.”

Martin shakes his head. Why on earth would that, of all things, be a bother? “Don’t mention it. Is it— Is it like a memento? Are you here on vacation too?”

It’s the boy’s turn to shake his head now. “No, no, I collect them. I— I just live here.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s— That’s cool. It must be nice to live this close to the sea. It’s my first time seeing it. Seeing the sea. Yup.” Martin curses himself internally until he gets his mouth to stop running. He clears his throat. “Do you, ah, have any recommendations? For what do do? My mum and her boyfriend have lots of plans but that’s just for the two of them, so…”

Martin forces himself to drift off, and silently begs the boy to say something.

“How old are you?”

It’s not a question Martin was expecting, but he can answer it, at least. “Sixteen. Why?”

“Well, there is the arcades, but the best one you have to be at least fifteen to play in. So I could hardly recommend you that one if you weren’t old enough. But, since you are, that’s a cool place.”

The boy’s voice is on the side of puberty that makes Martin wonder if he’s even allowed in the arcade himself, but he doesn’t mention it. God knows he has his own insecurities, and he’s not about to bring up anything that could be someone else’s.

“Could you show me?” he asks, before realising how forward that sounds. “Ah, I mean, you don’t have to. I’m sure you’re a busy guy. I just mean that I wouldn’t say no to some company, if you’re going that way anyway and…” Martin falters as he notices the boy’s eyes widen, then narrow as he frowns. Martin can practically see the cogs turning inside his head. “...and, you know, it’d be nice not to get completely lost.”

“Alright.”

Martin blinks. “What?”

“Alright, I’ll take you there. And I won’t even charge you my usual guide fee,” the boy says, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Oh, well I wouldn’t mean to— That was— You were joking! Right!”

Martin’s face is burning, and it isn’t from the sun. He tries to calm himself as the boy stuffs the seashell into a pocket of his shorts, grabs hold of the ledge and the railing, and heaves himself up to the same level as Martin. Now that they’re on even ground, Martin straightens again and finds that the boy is indeed a bit shorter than him. He still feels like he’s towering over him somehow, though.

The boy looks at him, clenching his jaw before holding out his hand. “I’m Jonathan.”

Martin takes it, giving it a shake. “Nice to meet you. I’m Martin.”

Jonathan smiles that small smile again. “Well then, Martin, let’s get going.”

They start walking, and suddenly everything feels very quiet. There is still the _whoosh_ ing of the waves, and the hum of people and traffic, but between him and Jonathan there is silence. Martin is itching to break it, trying to come up with anything to say that might make him seem at least a little bit interesting. He has no idea how far away this arcade is, and he doesn’t want Jonathan to think he’s so boring that he just drops him off there and goes on his way as soon as he can.

“So, your seashells,” he says finally, unable to come up with anything else. “You collect them?”

Jonathan glances over at him. “Yes, I— It’s silly, I know.”

“No it isn’t. I mean, I don’t think so at least. How did you start?”

“My mother used to do it. She had jars full of them. I didn’t get to keep them when she died, so I started collecting my own.” Jonathan says it casually, but Martin recognises a facade when he hears one. He’s put up one often enough himself.

“I’m sorry about your mum,” he says, not prodding further, but he’d like to think his voice becomes softer. “I hope that new shell is gonna be a nice addition.”

Jonathan takes the shell in question out of his pocket, its hues bright and reddish in the afternoon sun. Martin watches him drag his thumb across its ridges, smiling more to himself than to Martin. “It will,” he assures. “Thank you again for giving it to me.”

Martin grins. “Well it was hardly mine, was it? And I’m happy I did, otherwise I wouldn’t have anyone to show me around town.”

Jonathan nods, and despite his joke about charging a guiding fee, it’s only a few seconds before he starts pointing out things they pass and telling him about them, sometimes going off on a tangent that eventually becomes unrelated, but is just as interesting nonetheless.

Martin listens to all of it, fascinated and impressed. At the end of one of these tangents, he smiles, feeling a little bit stupid. “You really know a lot about a lot of things, don’t you?”

Jonathan winces, looking down at his shoes as he walks. “Sorry. I know I can get rather annoying. Feel free to interrupt me when I do.”

“What? No! I think it’s interesting.”

Jonathan scoffs and looks at him, skepticism and doubt written all over his face.

“I do.”

“Either way, we’re here now,” Jonathan tells him, changing the subject by nodding towards the large building in front of them. Martin had apparently been too focused on Jonathan to notice it.

“Wow,” he says, watching the bright colours and the steady trickle of teens and adults moving in and out. He’s never been to this kind of place before.

Jonathan shoves his hands in his pockets, foot kicking a little at the ground in front of him. “Yes, well, I suppose I’ll be off then. Have fun?”

“You’re not coming?” Martin asks. “I thought— Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed— Again, you’re probably a busy guy and all and here I am—”

“Are you making fun of me?” Jonathan’s voice cuts through his rambling, edged with steel.

“What?” Martin asks. Squeaks, really.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me a ‘busy guy’ now. Are you trying to mock me for not having anything better to do with my time other than looking for seashells and showing lost tourists around town? Or are you just—”

“No! No. I wasn’t mocking you, of course not! I’m not—” Martin’s face is hot again and his throat feels thick. He thought he had outgrown crying in front of strangers, dammit. “I’m not used to people having time for me, okay? They usually say they’re too busy. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Jonathan is quiet. Martin is looking down at the ground, and he honestly wouldn’t be surprised if Jonathan has just snuck off, left him there on the sidewalk. And who wouldn’t, when a strange, stuttering boy just broke down in front of them?

But after a while, Jonathan speaks again, apparently still present. “I see,” he says, his voice softer now. “Well, as you can see, I’m _not_ busy, and if you do want me to come with you I could. Unless you don’t want me to. I would— I understand if you’d rather be alone.”

Martin takes a deep breath, pushing back the tears which thankfully haven’t begun to fall yet. He nods, looking up and doing his best to smile. “I’d like it if you came with, Jonathan. I’ve never been to an arcade before, so someone should show me how it all works.”

Despite everything, Jonathan agrees. They walk into the arcade together, welcomed by the clacking of buttons and cheerful, intense tunes of the consoles.

“Where do we begin?” Martin asks, wide-eyed.

Jonathan thinks for a moment. “Pac-Man is always a classic, if you want to try that?”

Martin nods. “Okay.”

They find an available machine, and Jonathan shows him the controls. Martin takes his spot, nervously placing his hands on the buttons. Nothing happens. “Um. How do I start it?”

“You need to pay. Just put a coin in the slot.”

“Oh, right!” Martin shrugs off his backpack, really hoping he has some coins in his wallet. It turns out he does, but not for many attempts. He doesn’t say anything about this, however, and just puts a coin into the machine and resumes his ready position.

It blinks and beeps, and the little yellow figure is now Martin’s to control. It’s harder than he would have thought, and he loses his first life quickly as he misses a turn and runs right into one of the ghosts.

“The trick is to press a little sooner than the intersection itself,” Jonathan explains. He steps in close, close enough that their arms brush together, and Martin’s brain shortcuts badly enough to make him lose another life.

“Right,” he says shakily. His final life lasts a little bit longer, but most of the white dots are still there when the screen tells him Game Over.

“Do you want to go again?” Jonathan asks.

Martin shakes his head. “I’m not very good at it. You should play, I want to see how it’s actually done.” It’s true, but he’s also happy to use it as an excuse to not have to spend more of his money. His mother doesn’t like it when he does.

Jonathan smiles — it’s still small, but Martin appreciates it nonetheless — and nods. “Alright,” he says, reaching into his pocket for a coin of his own.

He’s good. Martin watches in fascination as Jonathan beats level after level, his attention split between the colours on the screen and the focused expression on Jonathan’s face. When he finally runs out of lives, he frowns, muttering, “Dammit.”

“You’re really good,” Martin says.

“I lost.”

“Don’t you have to lose at some point?”

“Yes, well, but— Anyway, would you like to try again now?”

Martin thinks for a moment. “Maybe later? I want to see some of the other stuff too.”

Jonathan nods, looking out over the room. “Have you ever tried air hockey?”

Martin shakes his head.

“I’ll show you then.” Jonathan leads him through the maze of consoles and machines, until they’re standing in front of a table. It’s occupied already, by two adults who push the puck back and forth almost too fast for Martin to see.

“Are you alright with waiting?” Jonathan asks.

“Yeah. Though I don’t think I’ll be much good at this either.”

Jonathan shrugs. “We’ll give it a go. If you don’t like it, we’ll try something else.”

They can eventually take their place at the table. Like Martin guessed, he isn’t very good at it, but it _is_ fun. (And doesn’t cost money, which is a bonus.) Though when Martin scores for the third time in a row he stops and sighs. “I know I’m new, but you don’t have to let me win, Jon.”

Jonathan, in the middle of placing the puck back on the table, falters. He glances up at Martin, eyes a bit wide and Martin realises what he just did.

“I’m sorry!” he says. “I mean— Is it alright if I call you Jon? I should have asked.”

Jonathan is quiet for a moment, before he nods. “Yeah,” he says, a bit breathy. “Yeah, sure.”

Relieved, Martin smiles. “So, are you?”

“What?”

“Letting me win?”

“No. I’m just a bit distracted, is all. Let’s go again.” Jon smiles then, properly smiles, and when he sends the puck towards Martin it goes straight for the goal with Martin powerless to stop it.

They play for long enough that Martin loses track of time, and when they head back outside the sun has begun to set.

“I should probably head home,” Jonathan says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I told my grandmother I would only be out for a few hours, and she won’t be happy if I’m not home in time for dinner.”

“Right,” Martin says, disappointment heavy in his chest. He can’t remember the last time he enjoyed someone’s company like this and they actually seemed to enjoy his as well. He sighs. “Well, I had fun today. Thanks again for showing me around and everything.”

“I had fun too. How… How long are you staying here?”

“Two weeks. We go back home on the 23rd.”

Jon glances up at him, nods, before returning his gaze to somewhere in front of him. “Do you have a lot of plans?”

“Not really. Just thought I’d see the sights, do some vacation-y stuff. I’ll come back here probably.” He doesn’t know if it will be as fun without Jon, but it’s not as if he can just ask him to take him here again. He’s already put up with Martin more than enough.

“If you… If you want company, I could, ah, I could show you around some more? If you want?”

Martin thinks he must have misheard at first. But he goes over the words in his head again, and can’t find any other meaning for them. “Really?” he asks. “I mean, yeah, I’d love that, but— Wouldn’t you rather be with your other friends?” He hopes he’s not implying too much by saying he considers himself Jon’s friend.

Jon just frowns a little, then shrugs. “Eh. I want to hang out with you.”

Martin’s face is warm again, but this time it doesn’t feel so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated, and the best way to motivate me to keep writing!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is very cute, with his dark fringe falling almost over his eyes and with his seashell collecting and his knowledge, so it’s not hard to figure out why Martin is so excited to see him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this now because I am impatient and I know that people probably want some Soft content in the midst of the real world chaos and the apocalypse world of canon.
> 
> CW for some slight thoughts on homophobia.

Martin dreams of Jon that night. They’re back in the arcade and Jon is standing close to him again, putting his hands on Martin’s to show him how to play new game after new game. When Martin wakes up he buries his face in his hands from embarrassment, but can’t stop the wide grin on his lips. He’s seeing Jon again today. Jon _asked_ him if he wanted to.

They agreed to meet where they met yesterday, where Martin handed Jon that seashell. They didn’t really decide on what they are going to do, so once Martin has had his breakfast (quietly, as to not wake his mum and her boyfriend), he packs his bag with swimwear and a towel in case Jon wants to stay by the water, and a couple of sandwiches in case they need to eat.

When he begins to walk it’s with a spring in his steps, eager to find out what plans Jon has for the day.

Martin isn’t stupid. He knows he doesn’t look at girls the way he’s expected to, and he’s known for years that he would like the chance to some day kiss a cute boy. And Jon is very cute, with his dark fringe falling almost over his eyes and with his seashell collecting and his knowledge, so it’s not hard to figure out why Martin is so excited to see him.

Not that Martin would ever dare to kiss Jon. They barely know each other, for one, and he doesn’t want to make Jon uncomfortable. Besides, if he tried, who’s to say Jon wouldn’t just run away? So yes, Martin will acknowledge that Jon is cute and handsome, and do absolutely nothing about it. He’s just happy for the chance of maybe having a friend for the duration of this vacation.

They agreed to meet at ten, but in his determination to be out of the house before his mother wakes up, Martin is approaching the beach before the clock has even struck nine.

There are a few other people around already, but nothing compared to last afternoon. As the ocean beckons him, Martin crosses the beach, standing just by the waterline and letting the sea air embrace him. He could get used to a place like this, he thinks.

Since there’s nothing stopping him, Martin takes off his shoes and socks, clutching them in one hand as he steps into the water. It’s warmer than he expected, and the waves lap around his ankles as he walks along the shoreline. Further out, the water is glimmering in the sunlight, and Martin first thinks it’s a trick of the eye when he also sees a glimmer a little bit further ahead, just a few feet into the sea.

There’s something in the sand, he realises as he approaches, and reaches his hand into the shallow water to pick it up.

A shell. One side is rough and patched with brown and off-white, and Martin can’t help but to be disappointed. But when he turns it around and watches the pearlescent sheen on the shell’s inside, watches it catch the morning sunlight and almost blind him, he grins. He knows just what to do with it.

It’s only a few minutes later that Jon shows up. It’s just a quarter past nine, and he seems surprised (but not disappointed!) to see Martin already there.

“You’re early,” he says when Martin steps back onto the beach, crossing the already-warm sand to reach him.

Martin shrugs. “Had nothing better to do, really. Oh, and I found something for you!” He reaches into his pocket for the shell, holding it out to Jon with the rough side up. He wants the pretty part to be a surprise.

Still, Jon smiles that proper smile of his even before he takes it. “You picked a shell for me?” His smile is so nice that Martin forgets to be disappointed when their fingers don’t touch as Jon accepts the gift.

“Yeah. Well, I saw it and thought of you, so… Turn it over.”

Jon does, his eyes widening like Martin hoped they would. “Oh. _Oh._ This is… This is very nice. Thank you, Martin.”

“I thought you could add it to your collection,” Martin says. “Or not, if you don’t want to, obviously. But it’s yours, either way. If you want it.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, even though he’s already said it once. “So… What do you want to do today? I was thinking we could get ice cream, and I could show you some shops, but nothing’s really open yet.”

Martin shrugs. “I’m fine with anything. We could just walk along the beach, even, unless you think that’s too boring.”

“No, I— I do that a lot, actually. Walking along the beach is good.”

Jon sits down for a moment to take off his own shoes, and then they walk along the shore, aimless and not caring at all for the passing time. They both make the mistake of asking the other a bit about family, and both brush the questions off as good as they can. They eventually find their way to the topic of books, and Jon starts to speak of one he read last week, going into too much detail to be cohesive, but Martin is happy to listen anyway. The thought of kissing Jon comes to him again, unbidden, but he ignores it. He’s already decided he’s not going to do anything like that, after all. Even though Jon’s lips look very soft.

Eventually they head out of the water, sitting down on the beach while their feet dry.

Jon is still holding the shell in his hands, and he fiddles with it, flipping it around to watch it shine in the sunlight. “I talked a lot again, didn’t I?” he mumbles.

“What? Well...yeah. But it’s nice,” Martin tells him.

“You don’t have to say that.”

Martin frowns. “But I mean it. I like listening to you, Jon.”

Jon’s hand still against the shell. “Sorry. You’re being nice and I’m just. Ruining it.”

Martin feels brave, and bumps Jon’s shoulder with his own. “You’re _not._ I’m having a good time.” He smiles. “You think any ice cream place is open yet?”

Jon sighs, quietly, then nods and smiles as well. “I believe so.”

“Alright then.” Martin brushes the sand off of his feet before pulling on his socks and shoes, and beside him Jon does the same.

Jon leads the way, and soon enough they’re standing in front of an ice cream shop, where a short queue has already formed despite the relatively early hour.

“What do you want? I’ll pay,” Jon says.

“I can pay for myself.”

“I want to. Please?”

Jon gives him a little smile, and Martin can only stutter out a, “Oh, well— Um. I suppose— Chocolate?”

Jon’s smile widens, and once they reach the end of the queue he orders chocolate for Martin and lemon for himself. His fingers brush Martin’s again when he hands him his cone, and Martin almost drops it right there. Thankfully he keeps hold of it, and they go to sit down at a table.

Jon starts talking again, this time about chocolate quality and cocoa percentages. Martin listens, and doesn’t interrupt until he has to tell Jon that his ice cream is melting. While he catches it before it can drip down to his hand, Martin makes sure to look away. His gaze randomly falls on three girls sitting a few tables over, watching him and Jon and, as they notice him watching back they look away and break into giggles.

“I think you’ve got some admirers,” he finds himself saying, low enough that only Jon can hear.

Jon looks up from his ice cream, and as Martin nods in their direction, he follows his gaze to the trio. They giggle again, and Jon turns back to Martin. His cheeks look a little darker than before. “I hardly think it’s me they’re admiring.”

Martin laughs. “Of course it is, who else would it— Oh come on, don’t be ridiculous.”

Jon shrugs, and gets that forced casualness about him. “I think it’s a fair assumption. You can go say hi if you want.”

Martin’s laugh turns into a scoff. “They’re like fourteen, Jon, why would I want to go say hi to them?”

“So talking to someone one year younger than you is fine,” Jon says, pointing at himself, “but two years and they’re suddenly children?”

“Well, yeah, kinda? So if _you_ want to go say hi that’s different, and besides, it’s you they were looking at anyway.”

Jon huffs and takes a bite of his ice cream. “Well I’d rather talk to you, so.”

Martin feels a bit dizzy. He clears his throat. “Oh. Right, well— Ah. You were— White chocolate and cocoa butter, right?”

Jon blinks at him, before slowly resuming his little lecture, and Martin thinks he will remember this every time he eats chocolate from now on.

Jon keeps going until both of them have finished their ice cream. As they are on their way back to the street, they pass the group of girls again, who giggle once more.

“You really aren’t going to talk to them?” Jon asks once they’re a safe distance away. He sounds curious, not accusatory.

“I think I already established that I won’t.”

“Right,” Jon says. “Sorry, I’m just used to— Most of the guys at my school would have.”

Martin sighs. He didn’t want to do this. At least not this soon. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Is what?”

“That I—” Martin looks around, lowering his voice. “That I don’t like girls.”

He expects Jon to look at him in disgust. To ask him why not, to just leave. But Jon just shrugs. “Does anyone?”

Martin stops dead in his tracks, too shocked to keep moving. “You don’t either?”

It takes a few steps for Jon to notice, and once he does he walks back, leaning against the railing next to Martin. “Well, no.”

“So you like boys?” Martin’s ears are ringing and a faint, stupid hope is starting to flare up in his chest.

But Jon shakes his head with a frown, crushing the hope without even knowing it existed. “No. I don’t get why I have to like anyone. It seems like there always has to be some sort of crush going on, an—an eternal back and forth of who likes who and who doesn’t like who back and I don’t get what the fuss is about. It just seems so ridiculous.”

Martin remains where he stands. “Oh.”

Jon turns to look at him, his frown deeper. “Wait, do you? Like boys, I mean?”

Martin steps closer, leaning on the railing next to Jon. “Don’t say it so _loud_ ,” he hisses, pleading.

Jon winces. “Sorry.”

Martin sighs again, trying to keep his voice steady. “And yes, I do. Like boys. It’s fine if you think that’s weird, or—or ridiculous. You don’t have to hang out with me if you don’t want to.”

Jon is quiet for a while, and Martin considers leaving himself. So much for having a friend for his vacation. But then Jon moves closer, standing so their upper arms are pressed together. “It’s a bit ridiculous. But I still want to hang out with you. If— If you still want to hang out with me, I mean.”

Martin lets out a sigh of relief and he leans against Jon in return. He wants to hug him, but he thinks that might be a bit much. “Of course I want to hang out with you. Oh, and— Thanks for the ice cream. It was nice.”

Jon shrugs, and Martin moves with it. “Don’t mention it. I… I was thinking we could go look at some stores now, if you want? They have a really strange charity shop down the street I think you’ll like.”

Martin smiles and nods. “That sounds like a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments go right to fueling my writing of the coming chapters!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Jon, time flies by. Somehow he wants to spend time with Martin, and does so whenever he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has already read this fic and shown it some love, and welcome to any new people! I think this is my favourite chapter of the whole fic, I hope you like it too!
> 
> CW for negative thoughts about body image.

With Jon, time flies by. Somehow he wants to spend time with Martin, and does so whenever he isn’t working. (He has a summer job at an ice cream parlour. But he refuses to tell Martin its name or where it is, claiming he’ll laugh too much at the silly uniforms.) They spend most of their time roaming the streets or the beach, just talking, and almost a week has passed before Martin has a realisation.

“You know, I can’t believe I haven’t gone swimming yet,” he says, looking out over the ocean.

Sitting next to him on the sand, Jon hums. “Really?”

“Well, no. I’ve been spending all my time with you.”

“There’s nothing stopping you from going off on your own.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “If I wanted to go swim on my own I could have done that while you were at work. It— It just seems more fun together, doesn’t it?”

“You want to go swimming together,” Jon says, and it isn’t a question.

“Yeah?” Martin shrugs. “I mean, if you’d like to. It could be fun?”

Jon is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, alright then.”

So the next day they find themselves at the beach, wearing swimming trunks rather than regular shorts, laying their towels down on the sand. Martin is caught up in their usual conversation and it’s not until he’s reaching for the hem of his t-shirt that his embarrassment hits him.

He doesn’t hate his body. But he doesn’t exactly love it either. It’s just...there, and he doesn’t mind it so much when he doesn’t have to think about it. But he has more fat on it than many deem acceptable, and when it’s pointed out, he can’t help but feel uncomfortable.

It’s not that he thinks Jon is going to be mean about it. But there are other people on the beach, even though they’ve wandered away from the most crowded area, and _they_ are going to look at him and Jon is going to see that and maybe start thinking of him differently, and—

“Martin?” Jon pulls him out of his thoughts with a hand on his forearm. “What’s the matter? Did you forget sunscreen again?”

They both remember how red Martin had been after his first full day out in the sun, looking more like a cooked lobster than a person, his arms and legs and face burning and stinging as the evening air chilled him. And that’s another thing, isn’t it? Martin knows the tan line from his t-shirt, dividing his skin between flushed pink and pale white is far from attractive. (Not that he needs Jon to find him attractive. But it would be nice to not be considered ugly.)

“No, I put it on at home,” Martin manages to reply.

Jon’s gaze is heavy, even though Martin isn’t meeting it. Then, bless him, he says, “You don’t have to take your shirt off, you know. I’m keeping mine on.”

“It’s gonna get wet,” Martin says.

“Obviously. But it’ll dry.”

Maybe it can really be that simple. Martin nods, stuffing his glasses into his bag. “Okay. Sure.”

Jon smiles and stands up, holding a hand out for Martin. He blinks a bit before taking it, though he barely lets Jon take any of his weight.

Once Martin is standing, Jon lets go of his hand and they walk towards the shore. It’s a bit silly how much Martin misses the warmth of it, but he doesn’t say or do anything about it.

The water is warm at first, like Martin is used to by now, but once they’re far out that it reaches his thighs it starts to become a bit chilly. He walks on his tiptoes as his clothes are gradually getting submerged.

In front of him, Jon breaks the surface of the water, having dived and swum around without Martin even noticing. He looks so comfortable as he goes from swimming to standing, his arms floating up to drift through the chest high water.

“You just have to dive,” he says, smiling. For once, his hair isn’t in his eyes as it’s been pushed back by the water, and Martin is fixed by the full force of them. “Don’t hesitate.”

“It’s cold,” Martin protests.

“It’s really not.”

“It _is_.”

Instead of arguing, Jon splashes water in Martin’s face.

Martin gapes, staring at him. “ _You_ … I’m gonna get you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Jon says, before sweeping his arm across the surface to send water cascading right on Martin.

Martin splashes water right back at him, but Jon sees it coming and dives before he’s hit. The water is clear and Martin watches Jon move beneath the surface, swimming further away until he emerges again, rolling over on his back. Before Martin has a chance to think, Jon is kicking his feet in the water, sending another shower Martin’s way.

“ _Jon!_ ” Martin squeals. “You’re the absolute worst.”

“And yet you still like me,” Jon says, the teasing tone faint and replaced with something more earnest. Something more insecure.

Martin flushes despite the cool water. “You know I do.” To avoid meeting Jon’s gaze, he finally dives, taking a few strokes before he surfaces.

When he does, Jon is smiling at him. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon assures, and splashes water at Martin _again._

Martin splashes back, and Jon slips away, once again floating on his back. This time Martin recognises the move before it happens, and he grabs hold of Jon’s knees, locking them securely between his arm and side. Jon gives a half-hearted kick, but doesn’t manage to send any water flying.

“Oh no,” he deadpans, “I’ve been bested by a tourist. Whatever shall become of me.”

The fabric of his t-shirt is drifting around him in the water, riding up a bit to reveal tan skin stretched over a sharp hip bone. It’s paler than the skin of his arms and legs and Martin wants very much to touch it, to find out if it’s as soft as he thinks it is.

With his brain having short circuited too badly for him to form a coherent response, Martin just raises his eyebrows at Jon and splashes more water in his face.

Jon sputters and blinks before he laughs, which turns into a grin as he lets his arms float out around him and closes his eyes. He’s been doing that more and more over the last few days, laughing. Martin loves the sound of it, loves watching Jon’s eyes glitter like the ocean (even though they’re brown, not blue), loves that he seems to be the source of it so often.

Martin has been trying, really trying, not to fall in love with Jon. Jon has no interest in romance so there is no point to it and only risks making Jon uncomfortable. But it’s so, so hard not to fall for him. He’s sweet and smart and funny and handsome, and Martin is sure that he would give excellent hugs. Maybe it would be okay, to be in love, if he never tells Jon about it.

Realising he’s still holding on to Jon’s legs, Martin lets go, and allows himself to sink into the welcoming water as well.

Jon opens his eyes at the loss of contact, kicking himself into a vertical angle. “You give up that easily?”

For a moment, Martin panics and worries that Jon is a mind reader, before he remembers what Jon had been saying a few moments ago.

“Hardly a worthy foe if you do,” Jon continues, still with a soft smile on his lips.

“Maybe I’m just lulling you into a false sense of security,” Martin suggests.

A lazy stroke of his arms brings Jon closer. “Then I’d say you were stealing my plan.”

Martin’s feet find the bottom of the sea floor, keeping him steady. They’re out deeper now, and the water reaches to his shoulders, bringing Jon almost to the same level as he as he continues to float.

Martin should say something. Something clever to match Jon, something funny to make him laugh, anything. Instead he just stands there, staring at Jon’s face. His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips, the salt there doing nothing to help him. He could swear Jon’s eyes flicker down to follow the movement of his tongue, but he knows it’s just his stupid imagination.

Jon looks up to meet his eyes again, his own slightly wide. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but nothing comes out. For a few moments, it feels like the whole world is gone and the two of them is all that exists.

Then Jon smiles and gives Martin a light shove on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s swim a bit and then go back on land. I think the sun is getting to you.”

  
  
  


Martin isn’t happy at home. He loves his mother, but he never feels wanted around her, and every day is a constant struggle to not be in the way, to not upset her or make her angry.

Being around Jon is such a significant difference that Martin has trouble believing it’s real sometimes.

He tries not to think of how the days keep passing, of how they move him closer and closer to going back home. He wants to enjoy the final days he has here, without his departure looming over him like the dark clouds of autumn. But he has started to make plans for what to say when he has to leave, how he’ll tell Jon that he likes him very much, and that if Jon wants to, maybe they could trade addresses to send each other a letter once in a while? He doesn’t dare to count on being able to come back next summer, given how his mother has never had a relationship last longer than six months since his father left.

Jon is still the one deciding where they’ll go and what they’re doing. Or rather, he comes with suggestions and waits for Martin to enthusiastically agree. Tonight, he says he’s already informed his grandmother that he’ll be coming home late, and is leading Martin through the park. Or _a_ park. Martin doesn’t know how many there are in Bournemouth, and Jon hasn’t told him.

“Where are we going?” he asks for what has to be the twentieth time.

“I know a good spot,” Jon replies, staying as cryptic as he has been for the entire day. Since yesterday, really, if Martin thinks more on it.

Jon is carrying a backpack, and in one hand he’s carrying a plastic bag from the supermarket. They cross a plane of grass and cut through some trees, until finally Jon stops in a tiny clearing. Martin can still hear the town moving about on the other side of the vegetation, but going on sight alone it’s empty save for him and Jon.

“Alright, here we are,” Jon says, shrugging off his backpack. He unzips it, rummages around a bit, before he pulls out something soft. A blanket, Martin realises, as Jon places it on the grass. He continues to unpack the bag, bringing out fruits and chocolates and sandwiches.

Martin just stares, and forgets that he’s doing so until Jon looks up at him. His gentle smile falters a bit as he looks down at the blanket. “Is this weird?” he asks. “I just— You said, the other day, that you’ve never had a picnic before and I thought— You know, it could be nice to— And you’re leaving soon, and— Sorry, this was silly.” He sighs and starts to reach for the food again, beginning to pack it once more.

That shakes Martin out of his stupor and he falls to his knees on the blanket, putting his hand on Jon’s arm. “Don’t,” he says, not sure why his throat feels thick all of a sudden. “This is really nice, Jon. I’d love to have a picnic.”

“You would?”

“Of course. Should I help unpack?”

“I— Yeah, ah, there’s cider in the shopping bag.”

Martin reaches for it, then hesitates. “You brought cider?”

“Non-alcoholic!” Jon assures, his cheeks a bit dark. “I thought it seemed fancier than just Fanta or something.”

“Yeah, okay,” Martin agrees, unpacking the bottles and plastic cups, relieved. He knows some of his classmates back home have started drinking, but he’s never been invited when they do. He doesn’t think he’d like to be either, to be honest.

It’s a bit awkward at first, but within minutes they’re back to their usual back-and-forth, with Martin doing his best not to think of how pretty Jon is, or how much he’s going to miss him. As sunset turns to twilight, Jon reaches into his backpack again, bringing out matches and a pair of candles. He lights them and places them in the grass next to the blanket.

“It’s getting dark,” he explains when he notices Martin staring again. Martin can’t bring himself to reply, just wonders silently if Jon is aware of what kind of atmosphere he’s setting up.

It all becomes a bit much when, a while later, Jon stops mid-sentence to stare at Martin’s face. “You’ve got a bit of chocolate on your cheek,” he says.

Embarrassed, Martin tries to wipe it away. Is he really so smitten that he can’t even eat properly now?

But he must miss it, because Jon pokes at his own cheek. “No, here.” Martin tries again, but Jon just smiles and shakes his head. “Sit still, I’ll get it for you,” he says, and cups Martin’s cheek, his thumb rubbing the chocolate away.

Martin sees nothing except Jon’s face, hears nothing but the blood rushing in his ears, and feels nothing but his own beating heart, burning face and the spot where Jon is touching him.

Then Jon’s smile fades, forgotten, and his eyebrows twitch into a minute frown, like he’s trying to figure something out. His eyes flicker all over Martin’s face and he tilts his head; first a bit to the side, then upwards, then closer.

And then he’s closing his eyes and pressing his lips against Martin’s.

It’s brief and chaste and Martin forgets to close his eyes.

He watches Jon pull away, shy but smiling, which falls away as soon as he opens his eyes to look at Martin. His hand comes up to cover his mouth and he looks...horrified.

“I’m so sorry,” he gets out. “I shouldn’t— You didn’t want me to— What was I—?”

Finally, Martin’s brain kicks back in, and he reaches for Jon’s free hand. “Jon, calm down, please,” he says, a tentative smile on his lips. “I— I— I was surprised, like _very_ surprised, but not in a bad way, I promise. I’ve been...thinking about that, actually. Kissing you. I just— I thought you didn’t like guys?”

Jon looks less horrified, and more confused. “I— I _don’t._ I just— I like _you._ You’re...very lovely, Martin.”

Martin’s smile grows more confident, wider, and he blushes. “You’re very lovely too,” he says, ducking his head to catch Jon’s eye. “And I would like to kiss you again. As— As much as you want, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jon’s smile finds its way back to his lips as he leans closer again. And they kiss. And they kiss. And they kiss.

It’s a little awkward, perhaps, but Martin thinks the rest of the evening is perfect. He gets to touch Jon’s face and hair and hands, and at one moment he’s even brave enough to hold onto Jon’s waist for a little while. He doesn’t ever want to leave.

But time passes, whether they want to or not, and eventually Jon squeezes Martin’s hand. “It’s getting late.”

Martin steals one more kiss before they move to blow out the candles and pack up the picnic. Jon takes his hand while he leads them out of the park and back onto an empty street Martin knows.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning by the beach?” Jon asks, smiling in the glow of the streetlight.

Martin nods. “Absolutely.” Then, because he can, he leans in for one last kiss, and Jon meets him.

When Martin comes through the door, his mother is waiting for him. And she is angry.

“Pack your bags,” she orders, voice hard and cold as steel.

“What?”

“Is it not enough that you’ve been out half the night? Now you’re acting up too? I said, pack your bags. We’re leaving first thing in the morning.”

“But it hasn’t been two—”

_“Martin!”_

Martin escapes into his bedroom, packing away his things in a haze. The only thing going through his mind is that he won’t get to see Jon. He could try to go find him now, but then he would have to overcome the significant obstacle of not knowing where Jon lives. And he could go in the morning, but then his mother would either be furious with him once she found him, or go home without him. He knows Jon likes him, but he can’t possibly ask if he can move in with him just because he’s childish enough to not want to go with his mum.

He doesn’t get any sleep, and early the next morning his mother’s boyfriend drives them to the train station. The car ride is completely silent, and when the boyfriend drives away again Martin understands what has happened. His mother buys their tickets, and only once they’re on the train does Martin finally cry (but quietly, because his mother will be annoyed if she sees or hears).

As the clock passes ten he tries not to think of Jon, standing alone on the beach and wondering why Martin hasn’t shown up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are gonna get better I promise!  
> As always kudos and comments make my day!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is sad. Heartbroken, even, because he liked Jon so, so much, and Jon seemed to like him too and that had never happened before. But he doesn’t get to really process the sadness until his life takes a turn for the worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you all so much for reading and commenting so far! You're great all of you!
> 
> CW for Martin's mother being awful.

When he gets home, Martin tries to find Jon’s address. But without any area specific area to go on, or even a last name, he quickly realises it’s impossible.

He’s sad. Heartbroken, even, because he liked Jon so, so much, and Jon seemed to like him too and that had never happened before. But he doesn’t get to really process the sadness until his life takes a turn for the worse.

His situation was never great to begin with, but as autumn rolls around, his mother’s illness comes back again and this time it’s worse than it’s ever been. He does what he can to take care of her, manages to find a weekend job to get some extra money coming in, but it’s never enough. By the time spring arrives, he stops going to school, since he needs to work full-time if they’re to have a roof over their head and food on the table. It’s alright though. His grades were failing anyway, since he never had the time to study.

His mother never thanks him, only scolds him for not being good at cooking and for not cleaning the flat better. They move to the outskirts of London after a few years, to be closer to better doctors, but it only serves to make her stop talking to him entirely.

Martin finds a job at a grocery store there for a few months, with awful hours and a paycheck that isn’t much better, but he scrapes by. When he eventually misses a few shifts due to taking his mother to the hospital, they tell him they’re sorry, but they have to let him go, and he smiles and thanks them for their time. His panic attack doesn’t hit him until he’s on the bus home.

He allows himself the afternoon to wallow in his misery, even going so far as to eating all of the ice cream he had intended for his mother. He doesn’t tell her about losing his job, doesn’t want her to hate him even more, and spends the next day out in the city, going to any and all places that might consider hiring him. Everywhere he gets a polite but firm no, and he’s met with the same response the day after that, and the day after that.

As he’s waiting for the bus home — which costs more money than he should really be spending, but he  _ has  _ to look for jobs — Martin sits on a bench, glaring down at the CV in his hands. It’s crumpled by now, and ridiculously lacking. Half an education and a handful of shitty jobs. It’s no wonder no one wants to hire him. If only—

The idea barely forms in his mind, but he still feels his face heat up and he looks around, as if anyone could know what he’s thinking and could report him for it. There is no one, of course, and he breathes out a shaky sigh.

As soon as he gets home, he powers up his shitty laptop. His fingers are trembling as he types in the words into the search bar, but after half an hour of searching he’s convinced that no, not all employers are going to fact check your grades or where you went to school, or where you’ve worked before.

So he makes it up. He looks around for all kinds of available jobs, and types up CVs to match, adding a degree here and an employment there. By the time he’s done with most of them, he realises that very few of the resumes look like they belong to a guy who’s only twenty-one. So he tweaks his age a bit, adds a few years to make it more believable, then sends his applications out.

His heart is beating hard in his chest as he closes his laptop, refusing to search for what the punishment could be for faking credentials like that. The rest of the evening passes in a mix of nervous hope and skittish dread, and it’s enough for even his mother to ask how he’s doing.

(“What’s the matter with you, boy?” she snaps as he almost spills peas all over the kitchen table.

“Nothing, mum. Just a bit tired. Sorry,” Martin replies, not meeting her eyes. It’s not like she would be looking at him anyway.)

He spends the next day cleaning the flat, making everything except his mother’s room — where he isn’t allowed unless she calls — feel a bit more welcoming again. After lunch he checks his laptop, intending to try to send out some more applications, but finds a new email in his inbox.

He thinks it’s spam at first, until he remembers the name The Magnus Institute actually being on one of the applications he sent in yesterday. He’s fully expecting them to turn him down, but what he sees instead is them asking if he can come for an interview in a few days. He sends them a yes as soon as he can, and spends the rest of the day reading as much about the Institute as possible, as well as any research articles on parapsychology he can get his hands on.

Martin gets the job.

He feels completely out of his depth, but is determined to fake it until he makes it, and approaches every task he’s given with a focus he hasn’t had in a long while. He does his best to keep his head down but still be liked by as many of his colleagues as possible, and when no one actually seems to question why he’s there, he begins to feel a bit more confident.

The first paycheck is the highest he has ever gotten, and he swears to himself that no matter what, he will not lose this job. He saves most of it, but buys a nice dinner for him and his mum, and gets himself a few nice shirts to wear at work.

He still doesn’t have many friends, and his mother doesn’t hate him any less, but Martin begins to feel good about his life. Secure, at least. He even manages to go on several dates with the same guy before they decide to part ways.

When he’s twenty-three, he starts thinking that it would be really, really nice with a flat of his own. He knows he can’t leave his mother on her own, of course, so he starts looking for homes where she could be able to live. The ones in London are a bit expensive, if he’s to cover rent for himself at the same time, so he looks mainly outside the city. Finally he has a long list of good options, which he presents to his mother.

She mutters some accusations about him wanting to be rid of her, but ends up choosing a home in Devon. It’s the one on Martin’s list that’s the furthest away from London, but he tries not to read too much into that.

A few months later, when he’s helped her settle in and she has told him to leave her alone already, he’s looking at the traintables back home. Now matter how hard he tries to fight it, his eyes are drawn to Bournemouth rather than London, again and again.

It’s strange really. It’s been a long time since he thought about Jon and the barely-a-fortnight they spent together, almost six years ago now. To be honest he hasn’t let himself, hasn’t wanted to dwell on the past and what could have been when he’s had so many responsibilities at home. But now…

He buys a ticket to Bournemouth just for the hell of it.

Melancholy and excitement keeps him company on the journey, and he entertains the thought of running into Jon there, against all odds. What would he look like how? Would he be taller? Would his hair be shorter or longer? Would he be happy to see Martin or hate him for leaving him without an explanation?

Even after all these years, Martin still remembers which turns to take and which streets to follow, and he makes his way easily to the spot where he and Jon first met. It’s still barely summer, but there are already some people scattered around the beach, enjoying the afternoon sun. Martin joins them, walking out to where the chilly water is stretching to reach the dry sand and just stands there for a while.

He looks down at his feet and spots something in the sand. A seashell, he realises as he’s picking it up. Rough on one side, smooth and shiny on the other. He throws it back into the ocean, as far as he can.

Jon never shows up, of course, and even if he still lives in Bournemouth he probably doesn’t remember Martin. Why would he bother to? Martin takes a look around some of the shops and buys himself some food, but gets on a train back to London before the sun has set.

He gets a new flat, eventually. In Stockwell, which is so much closer to his job that he doesn’t really know what to do with all the time he saves on commuting. He considers picking up a hobby, since he’s heard that’s something people do.

Even though his mother refuses visits and calls, Martin is okay.

The Magnus Institute changes its personnel from time to time, though perhaps slightly quicker than most workplaces. Martin suspects it has something to do with all the things they keep in Artefact Storage, given how that department is the sole leader in number of resignations each year. All in all though, he doesn’t think too much of it, just attends the office-arranged goodbye parties for those who quit and offers a warm welcome to those who replace them.

Today the newest hire is by their desk, surrounded by people from Research who are taking their turns to introduce themselves. Martin passes on his way back from the breakroom, cup of tea in hand, and hears a voice, low and pleasant, though maybe a bit overly posh and professional, but doesn’t really catch a good look of its owner. He resolves to wait until later, when there’s less people, to make it all a bit less overwhelming for the new blood.

When he does make his way over, it’s nearing lunch time. He approaches the new employee, who sits hunched over the desk in a way that has to lead to some severe back pain, seeing a pressed dress shirt and waistcoat, and dark hair pushed back to show a few strands of silver at the temples.

“Hi,” Martin says with a smile. “Sims, right?”

The man looks up, caught off guard but quickly schooling his expression into something neutral. His eyes are dark brown, reminding Martin of tea that has been left to steep too long. “Yes. Hello.”

“Thought I’d stop by, welcome you to the team and all that. Martin Blackwood, I work in Research too.” Martin holds out his hand.

There’s something intense and searching in the man’s gaze, before he takes Martin’s hand in his own, shaking it once before letting go. “Jonathan.”

Martin remembers tan skin and flowing words and soft lips, the memory stealing all of his attention for just a moment. Then he decides that no, it’s just his stupid brain messing with him, and the timeline would be all weird anyway; Jonathan Sims looks to be at least thirty. And besides, instead of sunlight and seawater, this man smells like cigarettes and books.

Martin mentally kicks himself. He’s still standing by Jonathan’s desk, with the man still looking at him.

“It’s almost lunch,” Martin says, returning to his original plan. “Me and a handful of others have lunch boxes, and I think Katie and Chris were planning on going out, so whatever you’re feeling up to there’ll be people you can join.”

“I don’t really eat lunch,” Sims tells him, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“Oh. Well, if you change your mind!”

“Right.”

Jonathan Sims, it turns out, isn’t very social. He rarely moves from his desk and dives deep into his projects, only reluctantly leaving at the end of the day. At least Martin assumes he leaves. He’s always the last one in the office, even that time Martin had to come back to the Institute at nine in the evening.

He does go by Jon, or at least doesn’t correct those who call him that. Martin doesn’t know when it started, but he hears Elias Bouchard, head of the Institute, call him that at one point, and more and more of the researchers start doing it too, until the only one to use his full name is Jon when he introduces himself to new people.

Jon attends office functions and after-works now and then, but Martin rarely sees him talking to any of their colleagues unless they talk to him first. And yes, Martin watches. Because Jon is attractive, and maybe that means he has a thing for guys who look like his teenage crush, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like Jon likes him or pays him any mind, so he’ll never know.

The years pass, and Jon is promoted to Head Archivist.

Martin thinks he’s about to get fired, that he’s finally been found out, when he’s the one to be called into Elias’ office. But instead of losing his job, he gets another, as Jon’s archival assistant. He says yes, even though he probably shouldn’t.

That feeling only grows as he realises the other two assistant are Tim and Sasha; the former probably Jon’s closest friend in the entire building, and the latter the person who really should have been made Head Archivist. Martin is out of his depth once again.

Jon must notice it, because he always finds something to complain about when it comes to Martin’s work. It’s around this time that Martin also learns that Jonathan Sims can be very mean.

But he neither says nor does anything about it, and his constant underlying crush remains, every once in awhile reminding him of a boy who said he didn’t like anyone, but still had room in his heart for Martin.

Things are fine. Things are fine until they aren’t, as Jane Prentiss traps him in his flat.

A few days after Martin has moved into the archives, Tim and Sasha show up to work with extra bags.

“We,” Tim declares, “are having a sleepover.”

Martin blinks at him, still tired from yet another restless night. “We are?”

“Yup! Sasha and I thought that we’d swap out this week’s Friday drinks for a little archive slumber party. You’re already staying here, might as well make the most of it, right?”

“...Right.”

“Anyway, we brought sleeping bags and booze, and we were thinking we’d get some food from the Chinese place Sasha likes.”

Martin looks around, a little worried. “You brought booze to the archives?  _ Again? _ Jon is gonna throw me out.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “He’s not gonna do that. I know he’s a little… You know. But he’s not gonna make you go home when Prentiss is still around.”

“And Jon is a lot more fun than people give him credit for,” Tim says. “When he wants to be.”

Martin crosses his arms. “And what did he say when you told him about this...sleepover of yours?”

Tim winks. “Oh, I wouldn’t go  _ that _ far.”

Which is how, that night, Martin finds himself sitting in his temporary bedroom with Tim and Sasha, him on the cot and them on their airmattresses. He’s still not sure how they managed to squeeze it all in there, but they did.

Martin really shouldn’t drink, given how loose-lipped he becomes when he does, but he still has his favourite tea mug in his hands, now half-filled with wine. Tim and Sasha are much the same, and by the time the take-out containers are empty, they’re all tipsy and giggling.

And that is of course when the door opens and Jon pokes his head in.

“Martin—? Oh. What’s this?” he asks, clearly not expecting all of his assistants to be there. And likely not the alcohol either.

Martin’s face grows hotter. He thought Sasha had checked to make sure that Jon had gone home already. But evidently not.

“We’re having a sleepover!” Sasha informs him, grinning. “Martin’s all alone here otherwise, it’s not nice.”

“We were just about to play truth or dare,” Tim continues, despite them not having discussed that at all. “You should join us, boss.”

Jon frowns. He’s cute, when he does that. “I should be getting home. It’s late.”

“And what are you gonna do when you get there, huh? It’s Friday, have some fun.”

Sasha holds out a bottle. “Come on, Jon.”

Jon looks between the three of them for a moment, before a tiny smile makes its way to his lips. Martin thinks it looks a bit insecure, and he wonders if maybe Jon is a bit lonely sometimes, and maybe just wants some company. “Fine,” Jon says, closing the door behind him and sitting down between Sasha and Martin. “But I’m not starting.”

“Alright, Tim: Truth or dare,” Sasha says, before Jon is even sitting properly.

Tim grins, even wider than usual now that he’s a little bit drunk. “Dare.”

“I dare you to…show everyone your tattoo!”

“That’s not even a dare! My tattoo is great,” Tim says, reaching for his belt buckle. Martin tries very hard to not go completely red as Tim stands on his knees, pulling down his jeans to show off his thighs. On the left there’s a skeleton in sunglasses, holding a pineapple. “Tadaa!”

“Wha— Why do you even  _ have  _ that?” Martin manages to ask, while Sasha giggles across from him.

Tim laughs, pulling his jeans back up and sitting back down. “Because it’s fun? Anyway. Martin. Truth or dare?”

Martin squirms a little. All eyes are on him and he doesn’t like it. “Truth,” he decides.

Tim scratches his chin, thinking. “When was your first kiss?”

“When I was sixteen,” Martin answers, surprised to have gotten off so easy.

Tim raises his eyebrows. “And?”

“And?” he echoes.

“And tell us the details!”

“That’s not how this works.”

“Uh. Yes it is. Come on.”

So much for getting off easy.

Martin sighs. “I, ah, I was sixteen, like I said, and I was in Bournemouth on vacation for the summer. I met a guy there, he was really sweet, we hung out for a couple of days. I didn’t think he liked me as more than a friend at first, but then he fixed this whole—this whole picnic thing and it was  _ really  _ cute and...then he kissed me.” The wine only gives him courage so far, and he deflates.

“Naww, that’s so romantic,” Sasha says. “Did you send each other postcards, all sappy and waiting until you could come back?”

Martin chuckles mirthlessly. “Heh. No, not exactly. My mum decided that same night that it was time to go home, so home we went. I never saw him again.”

Tim gasps, and Martin would have thought it mocking if he didn’t know him. “What? No, that’s so sad. Like, proper tragic. God, the guy must have been so sad too, thinking you just left him.”

Sasha shoves at him. “Come off it, Tim, you’re making him feel all guilty.”

Tim winces. “Yeah. Right, right, sorry. But it’s just so  _ messed up. _ Isn’t it, Jon?”

But Jon is quiet, and staring at Martin, wide-eyed. He’s cute like that too.

“Jon?” Tim repeats.

Jon blinks, shaking his head. “I, ah… Yes. I… I should go. I just remembered— Lots of things to do. I hope you have a pleasant evening.” And with that, he scrambles up from where he’s sitting and heads for the door before anyone can even think to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaving you on one last little cliffhanger before the last chapter! I hope you're enjoying it so far, feel free to tell me if you are <3
> 
> (Tim's tattoo was my friend's suggestion, and it was too ridiculous to pass up on.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin starts to stand up, but Jon’s head snaps up to look at him. “Did you know I grew up in Bournemouth?” he asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're at the end! I hope you enjoy the finale!

The rest of Friday passes in a blur of alcohol, giggles and hugs. Saturday morning then brings headaches and a very slow breakfast, and sometime in the afternoon Tim and Sasha bid their farewells, both giving Martin a hug and telling him they’ll see him again on Monday. Martin doesn’t mind being left alone, not really, but he does miss their company (and the feeling of safety in numbers). He spends the rest of the day trying to work on his poetry and getting caught up with some of his work files, but he lacks focus for either of it to be of any success.

He wonders, not for the first time, why Jon left in such a hurry the night before. Why he had looked at Martin like he’d seen a ghost, and believed in it.

When he wakes up on Sunday there is someone else in the archives.

Martin hears movement through the door, some shifting and rummaging, footsteps across the floor. Logically, it’s a person. Maybe the cleaners come in on weekends, as to not disturb the staff. Still, he quickly pulls on his clothes and looks around for something he can use as a weapon. His eyes land on the corkscrew, forgotten on the floor since Friday’s shenanigans, and he reaches for it, holding it securely in his hand.

He opens the door as quietly as he can, sneaking out of the room and begging he won’t step on a creaky floorboard. The sounds are coming from the kitchen, and Martin approaches—

—and comes to face with Jon, who is busy setting the table with coffee shop drinks and sandwiches.

Martin shoves the corkscrew into his pocket before it can be spotted. “Jon? What—? It’s Sunday.”

Jon looks up, clears his throat, and pointedly looks away. “I’m aware. Please, sit. I brought breakfast.”

Martin squints, looking from Jon, to the table, and back at Jon. “...Why?”

Jon sighs, frustrated. “Because I have a lot to apologise for and breakfast is the least I could do. If you don’t want it, that’s fine.”

“No, no, I just...didn’t expect you to be here, I suppose,” Martin says, moving slowly to one of the chairs. “Again, it _is_ Sunday.”

“I didn’t want to wait,” Jon explains, sitting down opposite Martin. “And I… I thought it would be best to have this conversation without Tim or Sasha present.”

“Alright,” Martin agrees, reaching for the paper cup Jon has placed for him. It’s hot and smells of cinnamon.

“I’ve not been very fair to you, Martin,” Jon begins.

Martin is itching to say that _no, it’s alright, don’t worry about it,_ but he knows Jon is right. So he keeps quiet and has another sip of his drink.

“I don’t have any excuses, given how I’m sure you try nothing but your best, but I do have a reason. Albeit a very poor one.” Jon tears a little piece of bread from his own sandwich, but worries it between his fingers rather than eating it. “You’ve always reminded me of the person who broke my heart as a child, and I’ve let that influence how I treat you. I realise I’ve been extremely unfair to you and I would like to apologise. You weren’t to blame.”

The sweet drink suddenly tastes bitter on his tongue. Martin has been putting up with complaints and snide remarks because of something that happened to Jon when he was a kid? It just feels so _unfair._ “Apology accepted,” he says nonetheless, his voice sounding tired and hollow even to his own ears. “Thank you for breakfast.”

Martin starts to stand up, but Jon’s head snaps up to look at him. Evidently he isn’t done. “Did you know I grew up in Bournemouth?” he asks, sounding almost out of breath.

Martin shakes his head and sits back down, something in Jon’s voice keeping him from leaving.

Jon’s gaze slips away, landing somewhere on the table. “It’s like you said,” he continues, uncertain but also almost...wistful. Martin has never heard his voice be this soft before. “People go there on vacation, and sometimes they befriend the locals. Sometimes they— Sometimes they fall in love. And sometimes they go home and leave someone behind, who wonders what he did wrong. Why he was foolish enough to think someone would want him.” Jon takes an unsteady breath. “I still collect seashells, you know. I could never bring myself to throw away the ones you gave me, even when I wanted to.”

Martin is very glad he’s sitting down because suddenly the whole world is spinning. He noticed the shared traits, of course he did. The colour of Jon’s skin and hair and eyes, his small build, the shape of his nose, the way he frowns when he’s thinking, the bloody _name_ — but he thought that’s all they were. Strange coincidences because Martin had never stopped missing the first boy he loved. And it wasn’t like Jon had ever said anything. Until now.

Finally he manages to get his mouth working. “I— You’re really Jon? _My_ Jon, I mean? God, no not mine, that sounds—”

“Yes,” Jon interrupts, still in that soft voice. “I’m your Jon.” There’s a careful, hopeful smile on his lips as he looks up to meet Martin’s eyes, and he sees it now. Jon’s face is sharper now — that of a man rather than that of a boy — and showing traces of age. But his eyes are sparkling like the ocean again, and Martin remembers kissing those lips. Martin covers his own mouth with his hand, trying to keep in the emotions that threaten to overflow.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognise you,” Jon continues, his brows drawing together. “I obviously noticed the...similarities, but I’ll admit I didn’t look as hard as I should have. I still— I still believed you had left me.”

“Jon…”

“But now I know you didn’t. And I’m— I’m so _angry_ at myself for missing so much. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“It’s okay,” Martin says, his voice soft. “You couldn’t have known that leaving wasn’t my decision.”

Jon’s smile returns and he reaches a tentative hand out, placing it halfway between them on the table. “I’ve missed you. Do you think… Is there a chance we could try again?”

Martin stares at him, at his offered hand. There’s so much to take in, to process, and he needs a moment.

It’s apparently a moment too much as Jon retracts his hand, holding it close to himself and looking away, his smile gone. “Of course. I— I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to think you were still— Just because _I_ never got over _you,_ it doesn’t mean—”

“Jon,” Martin says again, forcing himself to push through his thoughts. He smiles, just a little. “You haven’t changed, have you?”

Jon looks at him, and he seems so vulnerable that Martin just wants to pull him close and hold him forever.

He doesn’t. Instead he continues, saying what he needs to say. “You’re still doing this whole thing where you lay yourself bare and then apologise and take it all back, before anyone even gets the chance to react. You shut me down before I get to say yes.”

“You— What?”

Martin mimics Jon’s earlier action, reaching his own hand across the table for Jon to take. “I’ve missed you too. Like, a lot. And I’d like to give us another chance.”

Jon’s eyes are wide, before his lips split into a smile and he’s nodding enthusiastically. “Yes. Yes, please Martin, I— I would like that very much.” He takes Martin’s hand. His is wider than it used to be, though still far more slender than Martin’s, and his skin is a bit rougher now but they fit together all the same.

Martin brushes his thumb over Jon’s knuckles. “So… How about a date then? A second-first date.”

“Second-first?”

“Well yeah.” Martin shrugs. “Our second total, but our first one as adults, as the...the new us, or something.”

Jon frowns a little, though he brings his other hand up to hold Martin’s with both of his. “But we never had a first date at all?”

“Yeah we did,” Martin argues as a light laughter escapes him. “That picnic was totally a date.”

Jon ducks his head, his eyes intent on their joined hands. “I...never intended it as such. I just wanted to do something nice for you, make you happy. But I suppose it was a date, wasn't it?”

“It was very romantic. Young me was completely smitten, you know.”

Jon fails to hide his smile. “Me too.”

They sit there for a while, eventually remembering to eat the breakfast Jon had brought, though their hands stay together all throughout. Afterwards, they let go in order to put the dishes and the trash away, but it’s barely a minute before they almost collide by the sink.

“Oh, sorry,” Martin murmurs, stepping aside to let Jon reach.

“No, I, ah, it’s alright,” Jon says, and it’s such a stark difference from how he would have reacted just a few weeks ago, hell even a few _days_ ago, that Martin can only stand and watch him.

Jon notices, and takes Martin’s hand. “What is it?”

Martin shrugs, lets out a sigh. “Just...you.”

“That’s specific.”

Martin smiles, looking down at their joined hands. “Actually… Would it be alright if I hugged you?”

Jon looks up at him, hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Yes, I— I think that would— Yes.”

So Martin does. He wraps his arms around Jon’s slight frame, loosely at first, and then tighter when Jon begins to hug him back. Jon’s head settles against Martin’s chest, and Martin buries his nose in Jon’s dark hair. He waits for familiarity to kick in, before he realises they have never actually hugged before. It doesn’t matter much though, he thinks, because they’ll have plenty of chances to do it now.

He takes a deep breath, the both of them relaxing into each other. Jon hasn’t smelled of cigarettes for years now, save for the occasional relapse, but that scent of books and paper still lingers on him. Underneath it all though, Martin can still smell sunlight and saltwater.

  
  
  


By the time summer rolls around, Martin is really tired of the worms. He’s been staying with Jon more often than not the past month, which started with an offer to get away from the depressing archives for a bit, which turned into weekends, which turned into whole weeks. Still, even though he gets away from the worms at night, they’re still to be found all around the Institute, and it has started to get to him. Which is why he, on a sunny afternoon in late June, suggests to Jon that they go away for a little while.

Despite there being much work to do, Jon agrees, and for the sake of nostalgia they book a hotel room in Bournemouth for the following weekend.

Neither of them have been there for years, but it feels welcoming all the same, now that they arrive together. They spend a few hours looking at shops, pointing out what has changed and what hasn’t, but the day grows hotter and after lunch there is really no other choice but to relax on the beach.

Without really meaning to, they find themselves at the very same spot they first met all those years ago, and both of them stop to just take in the moment. Eventually, Martin picks up something from the ground.

“For you,” he says, holding out the small shell to Jon. He gets a smile and a kiss in return.

They go down to the beach proper, spreading their towels across the sand and sitting down, letting the breeze from the ocean relieve them of the worst of the heat. Jon hands Martin the bottle of sunscreen as soon as they’re seated.

It’s about half an hour before Jon groans and takes off his shirt. “I thought this country was supposed to be cold and bleak,” he mutters, reaching for the sunscreen to apply some on his chest.

“Sounds like you’ve forgotten growing up this far south,” Martin says, eyes lingering on how Jon’s hands move across his skin. The warm brown of it is even more gorgeous in the afternoon sun, though it’s a shade paler now than it was when Jon was young, given how he now spends the vast majority of his time hiding it beneath office wear.

“Suppressed it, more like,” Jon replies, though not without humour. “Will you get my back for me?”

Martin reacts fast enough that it’s only slightly embarrassing, but Jon doesn’t comment on it as they arrange themselves so that Jon is sitting between Martin’s legs, facing away from him. Martin tells himself he’s just being thorough as he takes plenty of time to massage the sunscreen into Jon’s skin, but any reason to touch Jon is a good one.

When he’s done, he rests his chin on Jon’s shoulder, moving his hands to Jon’s sides, turning his touch feather light just below the edges of the twin scars—

Jon yelps and almost jumps away, but Martin wraps his arms around his stomach to hold him in place.

“Martin!” he whines.

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” Martin says with a giggle, pressing a kiss to the side of Jon’s neck. “You’re too fun to tickle.”

“You’re evil,” Jon retorts, placing his hands atop Martin’s and leaning back against him. “The meanest man I have ever met. Absolutely awful.”

“Meh. I’ll take it,” Martin hums and kisses Jon again.

They sit like that for a few minutes before Martin grimaces, pulling his arms away. “It really is hot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Jon pulls away a little, shifting to face him. “I’ll take care of your back for you, if you want to get your shirt off. I’m not letting you get burned on my watch again.”

Martin smiles at that, but his fingers are worrying at the hem of his shirt. While Jon’s old reason for keeping a shirt on at the beach is gone, Martin’s is still very much the same. He feels like a kid again.

His insecurities must show on his face, because Jon takes his hand in both of his. “What’s wrong?”

Martin wants to say that it’s nothing, but he’s been trying to be better at telling people what he’s thinking and feeling. He deserves that. Jon deserves that. So he sighs. “It just...feels weird taking off my clothes with people around. They’re gonna look at me. Judge me.”

Jon squeezes Martin’s hand. “No one is going to judge you,” he says, and Martin wonders how he can sound so confident. “Look at you? Perhaps. You’re a very handsome man. Unfortunately for them, you’re taken.”

Martin scoffs and averts his eyes, blushing. “Come on, Jon, there’s no need for that.”

“For telling my partner he’s attractive? I beg to differ.”

Martin’s blush just gets worse. “Jon…”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. But I think it would be a shame if you have to get overheated because of what some strangers on the beach might think.”

There’s a beat of silence as Martin contemplates Jon’s words. Maybe it doesn’t have to be as bad as he fears it will.

“Will it help to pretend we’re the only ones here?”

“I— I guess it’s worth a try?” Martin’s voice sounds weak, but Jon doesn’t seem to mind. He just smiles and kisses Martin’s hand, before letting go so that Martin can take off his shirt.

As he does, Jon gets up to walk around him, sitting down so that Martin is the one with his back to him this time. “Like I said,” Jon murmurs as he starts to apply the sunscreen to Martin’s back, “you’re very handsome.”

Martin is tense, still aware of the people around them, though he gradually relaxes against Jon’s hands.

“It’s just us,” Jon says behind him. “No one is looking at you but me.” And maybe it’s just Martin’s imagination, but Jon’s gaze does feel heavier than anyone else’s. By the time Jon’s hands still and his arms come to rest around Martin’s middle, he’s actually feeling at ease again.

“This is nice,” he says. “I’m really glad we came here, you know.”

“Not a worm in sight,” Jon hums, his chin perched on Martin’s shoulder. “Just the ocean and the man I love.”

Martin tenses, then lets out a breathy little laugh. This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it?

Martin covers Jon’s hand with his, giving it a little squeeze. “I love you too, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again so much to everyone who's been reading, and an extra shoutout if you've left kudos or commented. You're the best!
> 
> (Also yeah Jon is trans in this one, I've been dropping hints but I didn't wanna add the tag before it was more explicit.)


End file.
